Wednesday, July 23, 2014


Growing up, I often watched my father at his woodworking in the basement. He might be fashioning a piano bench, cabinet drawer, birdhouse, or picture frame. Sometimes it was a piece of fine furniture, though it might just as easily be a more utilitarian item such as a kitchen stool, bookcase, storage box—or occasionally a toy for his wide-eyed offspring.  

Before I was born, he'd turned bowls and dishes on a lathe, and built a pair of exquisite guitars which the legendary Merle Travis played several times on his live radio show from Cincinnati. He also built our house.

Dad could make anything out of wood. An artist rather than craftsman, wood seemed to respond to his master's touch. Though he began his working career as a teacher, about the time I came along he chucked the classroom for carpentry and became a freelance "finish carpenter." His reputation for quality work quickly grew, and he was soon in demand to finish the finest new homes and remodels around. 

In case you don't know, there are two sorts of carpenters. "Rough" carpenters do the basic understructure work—things like framing, sheathing, sub-flooring. When the house is up and basically built, the "finish" carpenter comes in and, well, finishes the job—building jambs and hanging doors, sometimes building and hanging kitchen cabinets, building stairs and installing rails and banisters, running casings and moldings and trim. All the visible wood details that help to showcase a home. 

Nowadays a lot of this work from both camps has been subdivided into specialities—framers, roofers, floorers, cabinet installers, etc. But in Dad's time—and still on the "best of the best" custom homes where details matter and nothing is stock or store-bought, but handcrafted from the the finest materials, usually on site—talented woodworking was appreciated and demanded. Artisan carpenters were called on to apply their skills.

I possess none of those skills. Competent mediocrity is the best I can manage. But I am my father's son…and I didn't watch him at his workbench, or later, under his watchful eye, work occasionally as his assistant on various jobs, and fail to learn at least a few tricks of the woodworking trade. By osmosis, if not actually paying attention. 

Now, as I'm working on the different aspects of this whole-cottage remodel, a few of those nearly-forgotten tricks have suddenly rematerialized. Old, almost forgotten friends, again come a'knocking at the door. Like how, when working with oak trim, in order to prevent splitting, you first moisten or otherwise lubricate the nail before driving it in. I've also remembered how to lift a bit of wainscoting to the snap-line for nailing when working single-handed. Or the way to properly back-cut crown moulding, make mitre cuts align perfectly, scribe a board to a wall, or drop a plumbline from ceiling to floor. 

These and other handy little carpentry tidbits have been floating up from the dark recesses of my mental files like bobbing apples at an old-fashioned Thanksgiving party. And I appreciate their help and worth, for they're just as valid and useful today as ever—plus I'm rather pleased to know they weren't forgotten completely, but only temporarily mislaid. 

Yet they've also done something more than merely make my work easier and better…they've transported me back in time—given me brief, but astonishingly real moments with my father. Flashbacks so tangible and true that I not only see him in the finest detail, but hear his voice and even catch his scent. For a few heartfelt seconds we're palpably reunited—a gift, a blessing, inexplicable, absolute.

I wouldn't trade these moments for anything.   

Monday, July 21, 2014


After a week-and-a-half of deliciously cool, naturally air-conditioned weather, courtesy of what local meteorologists called a "polar vortex," temps are heading back up to a more seasonable range. Today's high should reach the upper 80s˚F. I'll miss the lows for sleeping (several nights of 51˚F tied old records for the date) and I'm really not looking forward to tomorrow's predicted high of 90˚F, either. 

Ahhh, well…Ohio's weather has always been fickle, no matter what the season. Change is our only constant. But it gives us something to gripe about. Which can be important when you're trying to decided whether to wear a heavy sweater or sleeveless tee in late-July.

The turtle clan will certainly enjoy the warmer weather. When daytime temperatures struggled to rise above the low 60s˚F, the larger rocks in the Cottage Pool were conspicuously vacant. But yesterday, the first day we've hit the 80˚F mark in a while, they were back out in force—painted, softshells, snappers—basking in the sun.

One man's swelter is a turtle's bliss.


Friday, July 18, 2014


For some of us, observing nature is a way of life—something we do without thought, as automatically as taking our next breath. It doesn't matter whether we're ambling along a sidewalk, driving along a city street, walking across a parking lot, downtown, uptown, in the suburbs, or sitting in the neighbor's back yard. We don't even have to be outside! I've watched plenty of birds and mice and a few other critters while pushing a cart around the snazziest supermarket, trekking about one of the big-box home improvement retailers, or sitting in the middle of a crowded mall, watching the endless passing of bag-laden shoppers.

Wildlife and wild things are everywhere—from sparrows flitting about ceiling gridwork, to a sprig of chamomile growing through a sidewalk crack. You don't have to hike into wilderness, stroll about a city park, or even take a drive in the country in order to see nature-in-motion.  

I'm still in the midst of our whole-house remodel, a long-term job that consumes practically every free minute when I'm not working on my columns. Free time to ramble woods and prairies has been nonexistent. I haven't been for even a brief a walk in two months, unless you count visits to Lowe's and Home Depot. Photographically, I've managed barely a handful of shots, mostly taken while accompanying Moon-the-Dog around on her peregrinations. 

But I've still noticed a few things I'd like to report. 

The first is a dandy little song sparrow [see pix above] who's been keeping me company while I prepare my materials. My outdoor work area is at the rear of the cottage. The pickup truck—loaded with sheets of plywood, 2x4s, various boards and trim pieces—is parked near the back door. My sawhorses are set up a few feet away—handy for offloading, as well as carting whatever I'm working on down the hallway.

As you might imagine, what with all the power sawing, drilling, sanding, routing, and hammering, it's a pretty noisy area. But the song sparrow doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he's gotten so tame he now sits within 5 or 6 feet of where I'm working, hopping about, rearing back to sing at the top of his lungs whenever the mood strikes. He's not even put off by the extended piercing howl of the circular saw. I find his company delightful.

Another workday companion is the large toad who apparently lives under the back door's 4x4 foot entryway deck. One minute I'll look and the deck is empty—the next, ol' toad will be sitting there, a nobby brown lump, benign and oddly Buddha-like, with alert gold eyes. This small wooden platform is located about 6 feet from where I'm working. I must step on it—and over the toad!—every time I enter and exit the hallway…a dozen or more times an hour, depending on what I'm measuring and fitting inside.

The third observation came inside, in the middle of the night. I'd finished building our new platform bed with storage underneath. We'd opened our king-sized memory-foam mattress from Bed-In-a-Box and were pleased by how it looked and fit. And now we were giving it the sleep test…well, Myladylove was, and I had been, until back pains drew me from my slumbers. Remodeling, with all its lifting, carrying, twisting, bending, and general body abuse is not the ideal activity for a man with a long history of severe back issues. But, if you want things to get done, you have to suck it up and push through the discomfort.

Sometimes, though, the pain wins. I'd gotten up with the intention of sitting in the recliner a while, and maybe popping a couple of extra-strength Tylenol—which is about as heavy duty as I go on pain meds, and that only rarely. 

Anyway, I was up, 3:00 a.m., shuffling down the hall, past the kitchen toward the great room…when I see these flashes. Multiple flashes, coming from every corner of the kitchen—ceiling,  walls, and atop the refrigerator. Lightening bugs! Maybe twenty or so, all intermittently winking their yellow-green tail-lamps.

How extraordinarily weird! Not weird because a few fireflies had found their way inside. We always seem to have at least one or two lightening bugs blinking around. They appear to be drawn to the cottage—though maybe it's just due to easy access. Because I generally keep the door open while I'm working outside so Moon can come and go as she pleases. 

And to tell you the truth, I enjoy seeing fireflies indoors. Especially when I'm hurting and can't sleep, I'm mildly comforted by their friendly flickering in the long darkness.

Still, it was weird how they'd all gathered in the kitchen. Why? 

After a moment's observation, I had the answer—though within it lies a bigger question along with a statement of how our evolving modern world can prove increasingly confusing to the love-life of such humble creatures as the lowly lightening bug. 

Myladylove had recently bought a small ice-maker to keep up with summer's hot-weather demands for cubes to cool our iced tea. She'd placed the little stainless steel unit on the corner of the kitchen counter. And the ice-maker's tiny, blinking ready light was a perfect match in size, brightness, and yellow-green hue, of a firefly's built-in signal lantern. 

Fireflies, as you probably know, do their courting via a series of flashed messages. Males query, females respond. A love-matching lightshow played out above the tall grass. Or in a cottage kitchen, when flummoxed by digital technology. 

Whatever come-hither tease line that blinking ice-maker was feeding to her suitors, she had them locked on point and flashing like the neon marquee above a Vegas casino! 

Can a lightening bug blow a fuse?

Worried, I did everyone a favor and unplugged the ice-maker. 

Monday, July 7, 2014


Spider by porchlight…handheld at 1/4 sec., taken about midnight a couple of evenings ago, from inside looking out when I let Moon-the-Dog out for her pre-bedtime ramble. 
As some of you may have guessed, my laggardly blogging is due to the fact Myladylove and I are still consumed by our whole-house remodeling project. At least during every free minute we can find. Morning, evening, midday, after work, weekends, holidays…if we can find a bit of time—hours or minutes—we try and get one more task completed. Even if it's nothing more than painting a piece of trim or sawing some 2X4s for framing. And you'd be surprised—it's these little things that keep the job moving along. In fact, building a house is merely a bunch of little tasks done one after another. 

The good news is that we're making progress. The downside—or at least daunting view—is that while one room is almost done, four or possibly five or maybe six remain, not counting the hallway, and depending or whether our fervor is strengthened or weakened by the time we get around to the laundry/pantry/storage room which we may divide into two separate rooms.

I haven't been out for a photo ramble in weeks. Haven't stream fished for smallmouth bass, either. I've not even taken the time to make the rounds of nearby garage sales! But I'm ordering a new memory foam mattress from Bed-in-a-Box this morning, which should be here before the week's end. By that time the bedroom will be finished except for some possible built-in bedside tables and bookshelves. And at that point, before starting on the kitchen—or perhaps the bathroom—I intend to steal a day and enjoy a bit of outdoor time. 

As soon as I make my mattress-ordering call, I'm heading to the lumber yard for some pieces of oak to use for trimming the edge of the platform bed's top, and casing the door opening on Myladylove's new closet—the interior of which she painted robin's egg blue, yesterday—so's I can hang the louvered bi-fold doors this afternoon.

I'll write again when I resurface for another breath.         

Thursday, June 19, 2014


Well, officially speaking, spring has all but taken its final bow, as summer waits impatiently in the wings—though if you proclaim your seasons based on the practicalities of looks and feel, and not some invisible astronomical milestone, summer displaced spring some time ago here in the pastoral hinterlands of southwestern Ohio. Temperatures the last few days have exceeded 90˚F, and we've had mid-80s˚F and above for weeks. 

That's summer in my book and I don't care what the almanacs claim about when seasons come and go!

The past week has passed by in a heated rush, like a highballing freight train zooming across a Badlands prairie. And I've sweltered and sweated and stewed my way from one job to another like a cantankerous old buffalo because between writing tasks and post-flood cottage repairs, there's a mountain of work to do and only so much time and energy in which to get'r done. Time for cooking and eating is problematic; fishing and photography nigh impossible. At least not without feeling guilty. 


I'm still head-over-heels thrilled and in love with my sweet and delightful and beautiful granddaughter. She's gained upward of a pound already, and is doing just dandy. And yes, I insist on photo updates daily.

The leg is pretty much healed. The rest of me is seriously sore and battered from all the carpentry and lifting, the bending and banging around—and my masculine psyche has been so discomposed that I now dream about things like building closets and laying subfloor. But otherwise, all is well with me, Myladylove, and Moon-the-Dog.

I did make a brief photographic expedition onto the deck yesterday, where I made the two shots of one of the orange summer lilies that grow by the steps leading down to the river. Same flower…one with a darker foliage background, the other with the river at midday beyond. I couldn't decide which I liked best so I posted both.

And FYI, these two images constitute the creative sum of my photographic output for the week. Sheeeeesh!


Friday, June 6, 2014


The world changed recently. This grizzled-but-still-incorrigible-scribe is now an official grandpa! Anya Grace Blann was born Tuesday afternoon, at 1:05 p.m. She weighed 6 pounds, 13 ounces, and measured 20 inches long. 

Yet babies can’t really be measured in pounds and inches. You have to start with a heart’s desire—two longing hearts of the would-be parents, plus many equally empathetic hearts belonging to family and friends. Then count the words—wishes and prayers and whispered thoughts of encouragement and support. Add in the sleepless nights, lost dreams, and secret wishes. Don’t forget all the worries and fears and what-ifs that can make such hopes seem impossible. When you’ve tallied it up and reached your bottom line, then, and only then, do you have a newborn’s measurements. 

Miracles happen every day. I held one Tuesday morning—a blue-eyed, blond-headed granddaughter, so innocent, so beautiful, so amazingly precious…between the joy and love, my proud ol’ heart nearly exploded! A sweet little blessing that has already enriched my life beyond measure. 

And I can assure you—no baby ever arrived into this world more loved and welcomed than my beloved Anya Grace.


Sunday, June 1, 2014


Laziness is doubtless partly to blame for my longest-ever blogosphere hiatus. Plus the excitement of impending (any day now!) first-time grandfatherhood. Also work—both writing and the start of the cottage's every-room-from-the-floor-up renovations, necessitated by our pre-Christmas flood. 

Then, too, some portion of fault surely lies in the general torpidity I annually seem to go through at the onset of hot weather, which happened hereabouts when, in a couple of weeks, we went from spring's last snowfall to temps in the mid-80˚s F. 

And finally, if I'm being fully honest, some measure of this temporary silence comes from the introspection occasioned by the May 10 passage of yet another birthday, and the dispiriting summing up of my life's genuine worth. Do I really, ever, have anything to say?

All contributed to my blogging interlude…as least for the first half-dozen days. 

But my absence beyond those initial few days has been due to accidentally having taken a rather sizable (3-1/2" x 3-1/2") chunk out of my left lower leg—a flesh-bared, skin-flapping, bleeding, oozing, owie severe enough to prompt quick trips to an Urgent Care facility and an After Hours unit in the hospital across the river from the cottage.   

In case you're wondering, I can be so specific about the injury's shape because it came from the rough-sawn end of a 4" x 4" which, as any carpenter will tell, has a finished dimension of 3-1/2" x 3-1/2". Actually a rather handy size for an injury, since a 4" x 4" non-stick absorbent pad fits nicely, making for a neat bandage. I highly recommend taking this into consideration when planning your own future gashes, gouges, and lacerations.

Because healing has required me to keep my damaged leg elevated to the horizontal, I've spent every day—and night!—in the recliner. Walking/hobbling has been kept to an absolute minimum. No sitting upright with both feet on the ground or floor. I can't do the bed because the injury is on the outside of the leg, between ankle and calf; the first night, when turning over in my sleep, I scraped off the bandage and completely reopened the wound—awakening to pain and blood. Can't sleep all that well in my recliner, either. A choice of the lesser of two evils. 

I haven't been at my desk or on my computer for nearly two weeks. Moreover, I'm technically incapable of writing much beyond a dozen or so words via my iPhone. Siri, faithful helpmate though she can be, fails when it comes to extended dictation. Thus, no desktop Mac, no chance of blogging. 

Yesterday afternoon, however, I hobbled out to the front deck and spent a few wonderful hours in the chaise lounge. That's when I made the from-a-distance backlit photo (above) of a few fading irises along the edge of my driveway. And in just a few minutes I'll check my wound, which is very slowly beginning to heal, to see what amount of drainage/bleeding this first sitting-at-my-desk session has instigated.

It's really, really good to be back.